Thrice happy he, who by some shady grove, Far from the clamorous world; doth live his own; Though solitary, who is not alone, But doth converse with ….

My thoughts hold mortal strife, I do detest my life, And with lamenting cries, Peace to my soul to bring, Oft calls that prince which here doth monar….

Put a bridle on thy tongue; set a guard before thy lips, lest the words of thine own mouth destroy thy peace... on much speaking cometh repentance, b….

Sleep, Silence's child, sweet father of soft rest, Prince whose approach peace to all mortals brings Indifferent host to shepherds and kings Sole com….

Books have that strange quality, that being of the frailest and tenderest matter, they outlast brass, iron and marble..

He who dares not (reason), is a slave..

So that my life be brave, what though not long?.

What sweet delight a quiet life affords..